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Harry Potter and the Perversion of Purity

By ACI100

Book 4: The Deadliest of Games

Chapter 7: The Quidditch World Cup

August 29, 1994

Dartmoor, Devon, England

11:42 AM

The hill sloped gently down beneath his feet and a lush green field stretched into the distance up ahead. Hundreds of tents blanketed the well-kept grass. Many of them looked almost like bright flowers from so far away. Farther still was a dark forest, its outer edge just barely visible from his current vantage point. On its other side would be the stadium unless he missed his guess.

Lucius threw a tight sneer back over his shoulder. "I do hope that muggle is obliviated. His suspicion is unseemly. If we must deal with his kind at all, then he should keep a more respectful tongue."

Harry nodded along, almost without thinking. If the man had merely gawked, that would have been one thing. Given how poor a job most were doing at wearing muggle clothes, it would have been forgivable. Expected in their circumstance, even, seeing as none of them had chosen to comply with the outlined dress code. But the dark glare levelled on their backs as they took their leave of him? That had been a step too far.

Narcissa rubbed her husband's arm. "Don't let it bother you, love. Today is too important to be spoiled by petty things like muggles and their insolence."

Lucius let out a long sigh. "You're right, of course, but I can't help that it upsets me. The ministry should have a tighter hold on things."

Two stone eagles emitted shrill screeches as if in answer to Lucius's grumbling. Elaborate shows of magic such as this were everywhere. Ministry officials were rushing this way and that, trying to put out fires before they could flare up, but there were far too few men to keep up with all of it. Perhaps it was for the best. The world might be a better place if the muggles noticed and the truth was allowed to spread.

Regulus yawned. "Let Barty know when we run into him," he said quietly. "I'm sure he'd be thrilled to handle things."

Harry threw a glance toward Draco and Diana. Neither of them reacted to Regulus's remark. That confirmed it. Both knew Voldemort was back and were likely aware of far more than that. They had been grimmer, as of late. Draco had seemed older, somehow, and Harry had begun suspecting.

Anger bubbled underneath his skin. Why was it so difficult for men like Riddle to leave children out of things?

Harry dragged his thoughts away from that dark pit and cast his eyes around again. A Star-Spangled Banner was strung from the roof of what looked to be a family home, simply built but three stories high. The banner flapped softly in the breeze and a witch and wizard lounged in large armchairs out front. Two young children frolicked closeby, kicking a football back and forth while they laughed and shouted.

"Merlin," Draco muttered from beside him. Harry tracked his stare to a tent flanked with two stone statues. They were the size of well-bred horses and carved into the shape of dragons. A crowd of people talked in low voices outside the tent. The language was not one Harry knew, but he guessed it was Mandarin or something similar.

"Here we are," Lucius said, withdrawing what appeared to be a square of canvas no larger than a matchbox from the pocket of his robes. Harry watched him tap it with a wand. The canvas floated down into the grass and then exploded out and upward in a single burst. Where nothing but open air had stood a second prior was a Victorian-style home, complete with an attached garden and three gurgling fountains made out of marble. Their soft sound filled his ears and the smell of flowers wafted up out of the square, cinder block beds.

Regulus removed a grey stone from one of his pockets and tapped it with his wand. It burrowed itself down into the dirt and the buzzing of wards sprang up in a wide circle which enclosed the plot of land they had selected.

"Muggle Repelling Wards," Regulus explained when he spotted Harry's look of concentration. "Any muggle who looks here will remember a pressing engagement elsewhere." A strange weight settled inside Harry's stomach. So much effort just to hide themselves away. How many resources had been wasted over the centuries?

"Is any of this allowed?" Diana asked. "Do the wards exempt us from the restrictions?"

"No," Lucius said with flippant disregard, "but I'm not personally concerned. The ministry can't possibly handle us all, and we at least took due diligence."

They ascended marble stairs and took seats around a small, oak table. Lucius summoned an elf and requested lunch. "Father," Draco asked once the meal began, "can I wager on Bulgaria if anyone will give me good odds?"

Narcissa pursed her lips, but Lucius only shrugged. "So long as you wager from your own allowance, I don't see why not." Spotting his wife's rigid expression, Lucius smiled and massaged her shoulders. "Relax, Narcissa. Either Draco wins, or he begins understanding the joys of risk. Both outcomes have their merit."

"You really think Bulgaria will win?" Diana asked. "Isn't Ireland the stronger team?"

"Bulgaria has Krum," Draco drawled as if that settled everything.

Regulus tipped back his glass and licked his lips. "I'll give you two to one odds, if you'd like."

Draco perked up, then slouched back down and smoothed over his expression. "Two and a half to one."

"Done," Regulus agreed with a deep-throated chuckle Narcissa sighed as her son and cousin shook hands across the table.

"Someone's coming, by the way" Regulus said once he had settled back into his chair.

"Tiberius, I expect," Lucius said with a careless glance up toward the nearest clock. "That man has never been known for his punctuality, nor for his politeness."

Lord Nott's footsteps soon echoed on the marble stairs, trailed by a softer set. The man whistled when he entered the dining room, Theodore moving at his heels. "This is quite the tent."

Lucius sniffed. "I certainly hope so — it cost quite a lot of gold."

Harry eyed Tiberius's gloved hand as the man made appreciative sounds while inspecting his surroundings. For some time he had suspected that Tiberius had been the Death Eater responsible for cutting off his own hand and aiding Voldemort in his resurrection. The long-forgotten dream had come back to him during deep exercises in Occlumency but puzzling it out had taken time. "You'll be in the top box, won't you?"

"Yes," Lucius replied, sipping from a glass of wine. "And yourself?"

Tiberius's shrug was too casual to pass for natural or properly carefree. "Prime seats, but not top box."

"Shame." It was hard to tell how serious the mockery in Lucius's tone was without knowing the history between these two in more detail.

The noise thickened outside. Hundreds of voices buzzed at the edges of hearing, all loud and excited. Draco finished eating first and Harry caught him stealing glances out the nearby window. Theodore joined him when he finished and Narcissa smiled as Harry put down his fork. "Go on," she told them. "Just be back in time for the match. If in doubt, start heading back here when the sun goes down.."

The three boys exchanged grins and rushed outside. A lighthearted energy urged Harry into smiling as they exited the tent and headed deeper into the thick of things. No small bit of relief accompanied the feeling. It had been a long time since he had felt proper joy like this and a part of him had worried it had been lost forever.

If the tents had looked like flowers earlier that afternoon, now they were a fast-fast spreading weed which had grown out of control. Most were small or simple. These were packed almost wall to wall. Large patches of them gave the impression that the field was overcrowded. These highly populated portions of the campsite showed hardly a sign of grass and were filled with the bustle of folk bringing things together. Areas occupied by larger, more eye-catching abodes were less cluttered. Their owners tended to leave each other sample space and these environments were better for it. The humid air felt lighter, less claustrophobic. The cheer was brighter, the conversations careless and conducted at ease.

Harry enjoyed these sectors most of all, not only for their laid back atmospheres, but because the sights were jaw dropping. Some of these tents put the Malfoys' to shame. One, ringed in bronze likenesses of the Olympian gods, sent his mind racing. What was Greece's history like in the magical world? Was the mythology perceived differently?

"Come on!" Draco urged, leading them through a thicket of bodies as they skirted the forest's edge. "I've heard there are vendors closer to the stadium. I want to get a Bulgarian flag and maybe a Krum jersey while I'm at it."

An acute awareness of the gold coins resting in his own pocket settled over Harry. A pleasant warmth filled him as he recalled Regulus's broad smile while pressing the coins into his hand. It was surreal to think about.

The world around them steadily shifted into an emerald sheen, and then they were drowning in a sea of shamrocks and four-leafed clovers, each one larger than a bedsheet. The tents here were in a tight square, its centre empty but for a wide stage on which witches and wizards wearing Irish colours chanted or else played the bagpipes as if their lives were on the line.

Theodore tried a mock sneer but failed. His lips just kept twitching up. "A rowdy bunch, aren't they?"

Draco was grinning outright. "We'll see how rowdy they are once Krum catches the snitch."

Harry swept his stare in a swift circle but saw no signs they had been overheard. "I wouldn't say that too loudly."

A football field sized patch of grass had been given over to a ruckus bunch hefting cups and pouring dark liquid out of bottles the size of tree stumps. Their chanting had a slurring quality and many of the words were lost. They appeared not to care a single wit. They shouted and laughed, danced and tripped, jumped up and down then wound up lying face up in the grass but cackling throughout it all.

"I wonder where Bulgaria's fans are," Draco said when they had exited the central pocket of Irish fanaticism.

Harry could not help but call to mind a valley ringed by trees, fenced in by vast mountains and a lake that had so sparkled in the setting sunlight. "If they're anything like the Russians, they've probably got lots away from everyone else."

"I doubt they'll chat much with anyone," Theodore agreed. "Father always said Russians were arrogant twats. I don't imagine Bulgaria is much different."

"I'm sure I can find a way," Draco said with indented confidence. "I might try and catch Krum on his way out of the stadium."

Harry's first impulse was to roll his eyes and make a biting jibe, but he crushed it down and let the comment pass. Let Draco enjoy boyhood while he was able. The time for such things was fading fast and he knew better than anyone how quickly it could pass one by.

Drums beat up ahead and the sound of blaring trumpets cut sharply through air now absent of a breeze. Soon they were greeted by a wash of red and green no matter where they looked. Bright rosettes from both teams screamed out players' names while Irish and Bulgarian flags alike bellowed their respective anthems. Shamrock hats shimmered along the line of vendors and golden lions roared from their places stitched into scarlet scarves.

"Harry!"

Harry turned toward the voice and found himself unsure how to think. Astoria was bouncing in his direction and wore a beaming smile, but behind her was not only Daphne, but both parents. "Hello, Astoria," he said when she had come close. "How's your summer going?"

"I've been bored," she admitted despite her bright smile. "I've just been waiting for this."

"I think we all have," Harry responded, then turned his head so he could look up at the two adults. "Lord and Lady Greengrass."

"Mister Potter." The woman had Daphne's hair and height, but Astoria's sweet smile. "It's nice finally meeting a boy who we've heard so much about."

There was something underneath her words, hidden well but not buried entirely. Had they heard too many lies from Daphne before Astoria had even met him? Did they think he was poisoning their youngest daughter toward some awful end? Seeing the appraising air in the father's expression dispelled him of that notion. They were not hostile, just unsure. Given how contradictory their daughters' opinions of him were, he supposed that was to be expected.

"I'm happy I got to know Astoria," he said carefully. "I'm not sure we would ever have talked much had circumstances not turned out the way they did, but she's one of my best friends." The youngest Greengrass blushed but her smile was unwavering. "Daphne's quite the young woman as well — everyone knows how brilliant she is, one of the smartest in our year." Harry could have laughed aloud. Daphne's irritation rolled off her in waves. Learn to deal with it, he thought viciously, you'll never do better than second best.

"We started gesting that she was smarter than all of us about a year before her Hogwarts letter came," the patriarch said with a fond smile, "but the way Astoria talked about you, it sounds as if Daphne might have met her match."

Harry looked away and pretended to be touched. "Thank you, sir."

"Thank you," said the tall woman with her youngest daughter's smile. "You helped Astoria plenty this year. We were getting worrying letters back in September, but she scored well on her exams and we understand you were a large part of the reason why."

"Astoria just needed some help here and there," Harry said with a shy smile. "Everything went really well once she had some basics down."

"Where are you sitting?" Astoria asked, jumping back in at the first hint of silence.

"I'm in the top box," Harry replied.

Astoria pumped her right fist. "So are we!"

Harry could feel Draco and Theodore stirring restlessly behind him. "I'll see you there then. Don't take after Draco and waste all your money gambling."

Draco spluttered. "I'll have you know—"

"That you're perfectly certain Krum will catch the snitch? Yes, yes, you've said."

"Once or twice," Theodore said offhandedly.

"Maybe… three or four times?" Harry made it a question.

Theodore smirked. "Or… a dozen? Maybe two?"

Draco scowled at the pair of them. "Oh, shove off."

Astoria giggled and both her parents hid smiles behind their hands, then the two groups exchanged niceties and moved off in opposite directions.

"They were watching you like hawks," Theodore murmured as they followed Draco towards a stand selling loud Bulgarian flags.

"I know," Harry muttered back. "Daphne's probably told them I'm the next dark lord and Astoria's probably said I'm Merlin reborn, or some nonsense. It must be right confusing."

"I think you did well," Theodore told him and clasped his shoulder.

Harry gave a nod, then realized the shadows cast by tall trees had elongated considerably and cast his eyes skyward. The sun had begun setting.

Ninety minutes later…

Harry stood amid a sea of susurrus murmuring and watched the final shreds of grey leach out of the sky. It was a perfect night for Quidditch; the moon was bright despite being only one quarter full and the stars shone clear as window glass in the complete absence of clouds. Flickering fireflies fluttered near the forest's edge and the drone of cicadas added another layer of soft, persistent sound into the eager air of anticipation.

Then a thousand lanterns burst to life and bathed the field in orange light. A collective cheer went up from the crowd, rolling across the flat grass and off into the distance like the fierce grumbling of thunder. They flowed down the lantern-lit path like a long stream or short river, through the flanking forest and out into the shadow of a stadium wrought from golden walls.

"Prime seats," the ministry witch told them when they reached their set of stairs. "All the way up and to the right, you can't miss it."

Excited butterflies flapped in Harry's stomach as he padded up the purple-carpeted steps. The crowd moved too slow. Witches and wizards filtered off through doors to left and right and the pace was steady, but it felt as if the climb would never end.

Narcissa finally reached the top a stride ahead of Harry, turning right and trailing her husband into a gilded box situated halfway between the goals. Wide, high-backed chairs upholstered in black leather and stitched with gold trim were arrayed in three long rows.

"Ah, there's Lucius!" The Minister for Magic bounced forward, his bowler hat teetering atop his head as he smiled wide and shook Lucius's hand. "How do you do, how do you do?"

Harry was staring at his back, but he had no trouble imagining Lucius's trademark smile. "Quite well, Minister. You've met my wife and children, I believe?"

"Of course!" Fudge said, bowing grandly to each Malfoy in turn. The man was in high humour.

"Lord Black," Lucius introduced, stepping aside and gesturing over his shoulder. Then, he paused. "Oh, and Harry Potter, of course."

Heads lifted all along the gilded rows. Harry felt the stares but forced himself to smile. The weight of their attention irritated him, but one day it would not be so. One day he would deserve it. One day soon.

"Harry!" Fudge bustled past Lucius and seized his hand. "Good to see you, good to see you. Come, come, I insist sit with me — you too, Lucius."

Harry followed Fudge along the front most row of chairs and glimpsed a sea of red hair situated two rows back. Idly wondering how the Weasleys had afforded their place here, he swept his eyes over the brood. Ron caught his stare and gave a single nod, then looked away, the twins smiled and flashed upraised thumbs, and the youngest Weasley blushed and refused but refused to look at him. The parents and elder brothers failed to notice his appraisal — all but a rugged man with wild hair and cunning eyes. The man was in his mid-twenties and wore a fang-shaped earring. There was no malice or hostility in his steady gaze, but he moved with the coiled intensity of one who has known danger and is prepared to act. Harry had learned to recognize that sort of person as of late.

Lastly there was Granger. Now free from the time turner's burden, she no longer drooped with visible exhaustion.

"I must commend you for a job well done, Minister," Lucius said, smooth and cool as water flowing over weathered stones in early spring. "I can't say I expected such a… diverse group up here tonight." It was well done, the way his eyes wandered in the direction of the Weasleys but never strayed quite so far as to settle on them.

"They're Ludo's guests," Fudge explained as he took his seat and gestured for them all to do likewise. "Arthur got his brother out of some snag. I can't remember the details."

"Oh, I understand completely, Minister." The barest trace of laughter was in the careless wave of Lucius's hand. "You have far greater concerns than Arthur Weasley and his frequent acts of heroism."

"Enough about this." Fudge ushered Harry into the seat on his left and saw to introductions.

The process consumed no small amount of time. Not only were there the ministers of both Bulgaria and Ireland, but of France, Germany, Poland, Sweden, Australia, Finland, and a dozen other nations. Then there were the ambassadors, hailing from China and India, from Canada and America, from Greece and Italy. Keeping track of who was who was likely cramming for an exam on material he had never learned.

"Ah," Fudge, turning to face a family of three who were dressed in rich robes of red and gold and who were sweeping down their row. "This here is the Russian ambassador, Stefon Zhikarov."

Zhikarov, a tall, slender man with high cheekbones and thick, dark hair, shook hands with Fudge. "My family." Zhikarov gestured to a young girl and one of the prettiest women Harry had ever seen. "My daughter, Natalya, and my wife, Natasha." The man's English was smooth and seamless.

Fudge greeted all three as they took seats on Harry's left.

"It is a shame your Tsar could not be 'ere," the French minister spoke up once Zhikarov was seated. "I would have liked seeing Pyotr again. It has been many years."

"The Tsar rarely leaves our borders, I'm afraid" Zhikarov responded. "I see to most public duties."

Harry stared through his pair of omnioculars and pretended not to listen. Pyotr was Feodor's son, he remembered, the teenage Tsar who had repelled Grindelwald.

There was a light touch on Harry's arm. "Отец, этот мальчик - Гарри Поттер." Harry cocked his head toward Natalia and arched a brow.

Her father spoke before she could go on. "На английском, Наталья. Я уже говорил об этом. Невежливо говорить о ком-то на языке, который он не понимает." The rebuke was indecipherable to Harry, but there was no missing its reproach.

"You are Harry Potter, aren't you?" Natalia showed no signs she had just been reprimanded. She sat with her hands folded in her lap and with her head tilted to one side. The girl had her father's dark hair and unnerving eyes, but she shared his bearing most of all. She expected to get what she wanted and was not often disappointed.

Harry inclined his head. The gesture was respectful, but not in any way submissive. "I am."

She sniffed, turning back to her father. "See?" Her accent was much thicker than his. "It is the Potter boy."

Natasha quelled her daughter with a stern glance, then smiled brightly at Harry. The shift was eerie. It had come as easily to her as breathing."You must forgive Natalya. She is young."

"I understand," he said with his own fake smile. It was not as though he had a choice.

"I must congratulate you, Harry," Fudge, bailing him out of his awkward conversation with skill he had assumed was beyond the minister. "I like to check the top scorers in each Hogwarts year, just for the sake of future recruiting, you know. Saw that you topped yours again with excellent grades. No small feat given the… er, shall we say, extraordinary circumstances this year."

The French Minister leant forward. "I heard about that," he said. "Sirius Black on the loose and dementors at Hogwarts."

"Nasty business, yes" Fudge agreed. Harry could not help but feel bad for him. The man had been referring to the time turner and was now forced to tread these unsavory waters. "I take no joy in putting those beasts near children, but Black must be stopped."

"You say he is responsible for the Azkaban breakout?" the Bulgarian minister asked in rough and halting English.

Fudge snatched his bowler hat from his lap and wrung it out between his hands. "It's an ongoing investigation, but Black is our primary suspect."

"And your progress in tracking him?" The Bulgarian stumbled over the word progress, but managed to pronounce it clearly enough.

Fudge released a suffering sigh. "I dare say that's a better question for Amelia Bones, our Head of Magical Law Enforcement."

"But you must know." the American ambassador persisted.

"The issue isn't not knowing," Fudge explained, "it's understanding the strategic timing involved when it comes to revealing this sort of thing. There are better times — almost any time is better than now. Why, the game will start soon."

"Black is a serious concern," the French minister insisted. "Our border can be crossed by the likes of him. We should know the threat he poses."

The German minister twirled his moustache between thick fingers. "Black is dangerous and people are talking. Albus Dumbledore is not a man who is easily ignored. The things he says—"

"If I may?" Fudge nodded and Lucius slid into the conversation. "Albus Dumbledore's reputation is not what it was. Worrying truths were revealed last summer. I sit on the Hogwarts Board of Governors and it has been a trying time. We considered his removal last year in light of Miss Skeeter's allegations, but voted against it."

"What is your point?" the Bulgarian minister curtly.

"My point is that Albus Dumbledore has displayed a worrying pattern of behaviour this past twelve months as well as throughout most of his adult life if Miss Skeeter's book is to be believed. First he ignores everything written in that book, and now he spreads fearful rumours while presenting no evidence. It's not unlike a schoolboy trying to earn back recently lost esteem."

"Fine," the Bulgarian minister conceded, "but Black—"

"Is Britain's problem," Zhikarov broke in. The Bulgarian minister quieted and Fudge relaxed again.

Harry considered how easy it was sitting there and listening while others spoke of Black. It was almost as if he had never killed him. All that's changed is I don't feel as angry. Had it been worth it?

Yes, he told himself. That's what traitors like him deserve.

"Will dementors remain at Hogwarts?" asked the Polish minister. "That raised some eyebrows last year."

Fudge placed his bowler cap back onto his head. "No. We believe Black has fled the region and will not return given all that is happening this year."

The Triwizard Tournament. Fudge knew Harry would be travelling abroad. Did he expect Black to pursue him across Europe?

The French minister perked up. "Ah, yes, the Triwizard Tournament. Beauxbatons is excited to host."

Fudge smiled, clearly relieved the discussion had moved on. "I'm sure Harry here is excited to attend."

Harry's eye twitched. It was the second time Fudge had forcefully dragged him into the discussion. Did he hope to use him, just like Voldemort and Grindelwald? I can take advantage if he does, just like I have before. There were worse things than having the Minister for Magic interested in him. "I don't actually know that much about Beauxbatons," he admitted, but I'm definitely excited."

"It is ze most beautiful school in all the world," the French minister proclaimed. "You will agree once you see it."

"I'm excited to see both schools." Harry chewed a question. "Is it true Russia rebuilt part of Durmstrang after the war?"

"Yes," Zhikarov answered before anyone else could speak. "Damage was done multiple times during multiple battles. It was our forces that retook the castle. We thought that made it our responsibility." That or they had wanted the positive publicity. The ambassador surprised him by continuing with a question of his own. "Do you know much about Durmstrang?"

"A bit," Harry admitted. "I heard how they let students skip ahead in classes and got interested. I did a bit of research after that."

Zhikarov's unnerving eyes came to rest on him. "And what are your thoughts on what you have read?"

"The way it's setup would probably work better for students like me," Harry said carefully. "I think Durmstrang would help me learn things Hogwarts might not. I know plenty of students fail, though, so it depends how you look at it."

"The correct way of looking at it is through a lens focused on yourself," Zhikarov advised him. "Others' failure is none of your concern."

"I agree, but I can see why some people hold it against the school." He felt a genuine smile tugging at his lips and let it spread. "Not that it matters much to me. I'm excited to attend the classes and am hoping I learn as much as I think I might."

"Durmstrang is the best school in the world," Natalya declared with her chin stuck out. "Anyone who fails failed because they weren't good enough. They're no loss."

Someone charged into the box before anyone could reply. The man's round face gleamed and his protruding stomach rose and fell with each panting breath. "Everyone ready?" he asked the moment he had sat down. "Minister, ready to go?"

Fudge lounged back in his chair again, smiling out over the pitch. Harry looked out over the box's edge as well. Everything shone as if coated in a fine layer of gold. "Ready when you are, Ludo."

Bagman flourished his wand toward his own throat. "Sonorous." The crowd had grown loud and restless, but Bagman's words boomed above their racket. "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! WELCOME! WELCOME TO THE FINAL OF THE FOUR HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SECOND QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP!"

The crowd roared. Harry looked down into a sea of red and green, Irish flags flapped alongside those of Bulgaria. The huge blackboard looming above the pitch was wiped clean of advertising and now displayed the score in large, colourful letters.

IRELAND - 0

BULGARIA - 0

"AND NOW, WITHOUT FURTHER ADO, LET ME INTRODUCE THE BULGARIAN TEAM MASCOTS!"

Bulgarian flags beat against the air like a storm of scarlet wings as the country's anthem blared through the stadium. Harry leant forward, but he was more interested in seeing what a magical nation would bring as mascots.

Then he saw them. Women? That couldn't be right, could it?

No. The hundred creatures gliding out onto the pitch looked like women, but there were subtle differences. Their skin shone moon-bright and their white-blonde hair fanned out behind them despite the lack of wind. Every one of them had that white-blonde hair, and every one was beautiful — more beautiful than any woman he had ever seen.

Then the music started. A tidal wave slammed against his mind, sweeping it out across a vast and vacant sea. Nothing in the whole world mattered but the women, their dancing, and the way they moved. If they stopped dancing, everything might—

Awareness snapped roughly back into place as a subconscious part of him forced his mind to clear. The weightless, enraptured feelings did not flee. Still he felt drawn toward the hundred creatures and still every muscle in his body felt at ease. But he could ignore it, could let it wash over him like the tide rolling over flattened seastone.

Which was more than could be said for most. Wizards were leaning out over the railings — some looked as if they were preparing themselves to jump. Harry knew why. There was the urge in him to impress those ethereal beings dancing down on the pitch, but he kept the impulse buried deep.

"What are they?" he asked in a voice faint enough that he wondered whether it had been heard.

"Veela," Natalya answered with a scowl aimed down at all of them.

"Veela?" Harry had never heard of them.

"They are hybrid beings," Zhikarov explained. "You see them as women, but they have limited shapeshifting abilities and affinities for air and fire." The Russian looked over his shoulder at the Bulgarian minister. "I'm sure Minister Roslovic can explain better. Veela are native to Bulgaria."

"There's little to explain," Roslovic said. "They become bird-like when angry and can wandlessly… what is the word in your language?" The man made a gesture as if pulling something from the air.

"Conjure?" Harry supplied.

"Conjure… is like… making something out of nothing?" Harry nodded. "Then yes. Conjure. They can conjure fire without a wand. The heat does not bother them and they…"

"Can create an unnatural attraction using some sort of magical projection," Zhikarov finished.

Harry wondered how they did that. It sounds like Legilimency. But that wasn't quite right. The constant pressure against his shields was different. Legilimency was not like that; it did not come in even, constant waves.

Natalya was still scowling. "All men are attracted to them."

"Not all," her father replied. "There are some cold blooded males among us." Natalya glared at him, but the man had already turned back to Harry. "You did well," Zhikarov complimented him. "Most young men do poorly."

Harry saw it was true. Diana had a hold of Draco's robes, and he was not the only one. Ron Weasley had one leg swung over the box's edge. The same older brother who had met Harry's eye had a firm grip on his collar and a thin, half-smile on his lips.

Harry watched the veela line up along one side of the pitch even as Bagman introduced the Irish mascots.

A green and gold comet soared overhead and split in two, each half speeding through the hoops at either end. A brilliant rainbow burst into life above the stadium, shining stark against the velvety sky. The comet merged again, now a shimmering shamrock spraying storms of solid gold.

Zhikarov scowled. The expression was identical to his daughter's and also the first sign of emotion Harry had seen across his face. "Fool's gold," he growled.

Harry's eyes were still focused on the veela. They were glaring up at what Harry now realized was a swarm of red-vested leprechauns carrying lanterns glowing green and gold.

Harry looked back to the Bulgarian minister. "You said veela ensnare men who are attracted to them. Does that mean… whatever they do doesn't work on everyone?"

Roslovic tilted his head. "His hearing is poor," the French minister shouted over the ruckus applause and general chaos as men scrambled all around the stadium in pursuit of good. "Veela cannot make you feel something you don't already feel. They riot emotions that are already there."

Something about that explanation felt out of place. Had he really been attracted to a bunch of women he had never seen? That was when it clicked. "But when they riot emotions, they can feel almost like something else? If you're attracted to them or think they're pretty, they can make you feel like you love them?"

The well-dressed Frenchman hummed. "Yes, that is a good way of saying it."

Harry looked back out over the pitch. The leprechauns had landed and now faced the veela across the field. Harry wondered whether what the veela did could be replicated, imagining a battalion of soldiers consumed completely by courage and devotion. It was a slim hope, but one worthy of pursuit.

Thank you to Red Renera for his help translating between Russian and English.

A special thank you to my high-tier patron, Cup, for her generous and unwavering support.

PS: The next chapter will be out in one week. Remember that chapters can be read early on Discord, YouTube, and P*T*E*N! All those links are on my profile, and if any give you trouble, use my website's homepage. That site can be found via a generic Google search of my pen name.